


I Hear the Call

by used_songs



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/used_songs/pseuds/used_songs
Summary: For honigfroschA little bit of knights pining.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	I Hear the Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Honigfrosch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honigfrosch/gifts).



“How could I know?” he said quietly, as if to himself. “They told me not to bother others with unnecessary questions.”

“But why didn’t you ask the important question? Are you going to blame your uncles? Your family? Your ignorant savage upbringing, buried in the forest and hiding from heroism and duty?” Galahad replied bitterly.

Perceval looked at the sky. “I’m an open pair of eyes, looking at everything and seeing. That’s all. The world moves through me.” He sighed and looked at his hands. “But I can fix this. I can find the Grail castle. I can find the Fisher King. I can redeem my honor and heal the land.”

“You are no one to go on quest.”

“But I see everything and wonder at nothing. I can pierce the veil,” Perceval replied. “There was only one other thing ever I wanted in this life, and I have had it. I ran in the forest like a wild animal, like a holy beast. And then came a party of knights, war horses stamping the earth, trees pulling aside their branches, the old ways falling to the side like curtains drawn. They were clad in bright armor and colors, their voices like bells. And I wanted them and I wanted to be them and I could see myself, like a vision, golden atop a steed of light, the lance in my hand, a sword at my side, my own coat of arms winking in the dappled sunlight. And I followed. And I am. And I have had that. But now it is time for my new quest.”

“It is not your quest,” Galahad replied hotly, springing to his feet. “I will find the Grail and heal the land. For Arthur. For Our Lord. I don’t care if your father was a king, you are nothing and nobody and you have failed. I take up the quest now.”

Perceval looked up at him, haloed in sunlight. “You cannot stop me from seeking,” he said simply.

Galahad glared at him for a moment and then spat into the dust and turned away. As he strode off, Perceval returned his gaze to the sky. He would not ask for leave. He would just go.

Later, as his horse moved solidly through the wavering woods, a white shadow in a darkened field, the harsh and green grasses of the front gate of the forest, Perceval smiled, his quest high in his heart. The air was full of joy and joy tasted of gold and blood and bread. The horse pricked his red ears this way and that, seeking.

In the forest, there was so much life. He had forgotten how much quickening there was in the branches and vines, in the cool damp ground, small blue flowers, insects like jewels on crowns of green. He had forgotten how much mystery there was in ordinary things, a broken twig, a footmark in the soil, a root breaking the ground, bark flaking away from living wood. He had forgotten the narrow punches of sunlight through the leaves, motes in the air, the quiet, distant movements in the undergrowth. Through it all, the path wound and his horse followed. In the evenings, they stood in companionship until he finally had to lie down by the fire, wrapped in his heaviest cloak.

After many days’ travel, the dark wood opened up, palms out to the sky, and ahead, across the brown field, a castle of ancient stone rose from the grave of the ground. Slashes opened up in the field, rich red blood mud spilling out. A road rose up where there had been none. There was a ringing, a bell or a hammer against the side of a cauldron, and the birds in the sky fell down in clouds of mist.

A young man, handsome, dark, clad in a stained cloak, stood by the road, a swan feather between his fingers.

“Did you hear the call?” he said, as if in challenge.

Perceval cocked his head. “I hear the call of the world, no other.”

“Do you hear the call?” the young man repeated, his face growing pale and his breaths short.

Perceval looked again. “Is it you? Have I found you at last?”

The young man sighed. “Is it you as well?” he said, his fingers twisting the fabric. He leaned forward with a pained gasp. The blood streamed down his leg.

Perceval replied, his heart racing, “Sir, why do you suffer so?”

"I was wounded by the spear and they say it alone can heal me. I don’t know how that can be.” He smiled weakly. “Have you come to ask the question?”

Perceval nodded, then he reached down to pull the other man up onto the horse behind him. The man grunted in pain as a settled and then tried to cover his suffering. He leaned against Perceval’s back and said quietly. “Why does a king’s son ride quest like an itinerate knight?”

Perceval laughed. “My father had many sons.”

“Not that father,” the man replied.

“The only father I know then.” Leaning forward with a creak of leather Perceval urged his horse forward at a gentle walk. "Who is the Grail?" he asked softly.

"That cannot be spoken, but if you are called to its service, the knowledge will not be hidden for long,” the man replied. “I think you are the innocent fool I have heard about?”

Perceval smiled with no humor. "It seems to me that I might name myself as Death. Your death.”

“Never that.”

“Never. Nowhere. No one.”

The man tightened his arms around Perceval’s chest. “I dreamed that you were coming here to heal the land.”

"Who is served by the Grail?" Perceval asked.

"The old king, whose heir you are.”

“Whose heir you are, you mean.”

“Not me.” He moved his hand across Perceval’s chest, fingers running in the lines of the armor there. “You are the one who the road rose up to greet. I have lived in darkness and pain for a long time, surrounded by desolation.”

“Me? I am merely a wild knight with no earthly home.”

“No earthly path leads here, and none could tread it whom the Grail itself had not guided.”

“I seem already to have come far.”

“My knight, time here becomes space.” The young man laid his cheek to Perceval’s back, warm and alive. Above, a single swan flew by and the young man released the feather, letting it fall. The road was long yet not so long and soon they were inside.

Within the keep, servants eased the young man down from the horse’s back and wiped the pain sweat from his brow as they took him into the inner building. Perceval dismounted and said, “I am here to see the king.” His horse was stabled and he was ushered through the metal-bound and studded door into an expansive hall hung with tapestries and lit by candles. A polished metal mirror reflected the light dimly and caught the flash of his armor as he strode past.

Deeper and deeper into the dark rooms he went, the air chill and the smell of blood and disease everywhere. The servants vanished but the way opened up before him and so he walked on. Finally he reached a door carved with scenes of fierce delight, their ancient beauty marred with deep blade marks. The door swung open of its own accord to reveal a vast chamber with one chair and one occupant.

In the carved chair a thousand faces gaped, eyes wide and staring. The young man, crowned with golden ivy, arrayed in fresh robes that were embroidered all over with scenes of chivalry and freshly stained on one side with the blood that seeped from his thigh, sat in the chair, his face turned to the light. His eyes were shut, the lashes like black thread against his dark skin.

Perceval knelt on the stone floor, laid down his sword and shield. “Sire, why do you suffer so?”

The young king opened his eyes. “The land is gone brown and broken, cold and salted over. There is no harvest. The old ways are gone and the new ways are a deep wound that never scabs over,” he said heavily. “I had hoped that you brought healing.”

Perceval rose, took three steps forward, reached down to caress the king’s upturned face, to push back his locks, to guide him forward, and then he leaned down and kissed him, deep and frenzied as the hunt, rough as the forest, free as the stag, feverish as the bonfire. He kissed him with the power of his holy foolishness.

“There is no blood,” he murmured against the king’s lips. “There is no wound.” He kissed him again, tasting of apples and wood smoke. “There are no wasted places anymore. This world is made anew and you and I are wild in it, my king.”


End file.
